Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

I typed ‘UK tax residency for companies’ into the internet search engine. The result was most revealing:

A company is generally treated as tax resident in the United Kingdom if it is either incorporated in the United Kingdom or, if not, if the boardroom control is exercised in the United Kingdom, or a majority of its board members are UK tax residents.

Reynard Shipping Limited was not incorporated in the United Kingdom. Martin had moved its registration to the Cayman Islands three years ago.

I could hear Henri singing in the shower.

I went quickly into the bedroom and looked again at the packet of board papers in the bedside drawer. They included the minutes of the last meeting, held in Singapore the previous September. The minutes recorded those board members present: Sir Richard Reynard (Chairman), Martin Reynard (Managing Director), Henrietta Shawcross, Greg Sherwood and Alistair Vickers. There had been no apologies for absence. So the Reynard Shipping Limited board of directors comprised just those five.

I knew from my earlier phone call that Greg Sherwood worked for Atherton, Bradley and Partners, the local Cayman lawyers, and I assumed that Alistair Vickers did as well. They were the two directors that Henri had said were there just to ensure the company complied with the local regulations.

Sir Richard and Henrietta both lived permanently in England.

A company is generally treated as tax resident in the United Kingdom if... a majority of its board members are UK tax residents.

As long as Martin was non-resident, a majority of the board members were non-resident, so the company was non-resident.

If, however, Martin had become a UK tax resident, even accidentally, then the company...

‘What are you doing?’ Henri said behind me in an accusatory tone that made me jump.

I turned around with the board papers still in my hands. It was far too late to put them back without her seeing.

‘Nothing,’ I said, smiling at her.

She did not smile back. ‘What are you doing with those?’ she asked, pointing at the papers, the accusation still clearly evident in her voice.

‘I just wondered who the other directors were,’ I said tamely.

‘Why?’

‘No reason.’

I could hardly tell her my true motive. I returned the papers to the drawer and pushed it shut.

She was not happy.

I had grossly invaded her privacy and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The doorbell rang.

I was relieved, thinking that it had got me out of a spot of trouble.

How wrong I was.

I opened the front door to find Bentley Robertson and Sir Richard Reynard standing there, and neither of them was in a friendly mood. They didn’t wait to be asked in, they just forced their way through the door as I backed away down the hallway. They closed the door behind them.

Henri came waltzing out of the bedroom wearing a bathrobe and with a towel turban on her head.

‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘You said in an hour. I’m not ready.’ She pointed at Bentley. ‘And what the hell is he doing here? I’m not going anywhere with him.’ She was almost shouting.

‘Henrietta, be quiet,’ Sir Richard said, taking his eyes off me for only a fraction of a second.

Henri opened her mouth as if to say something more.

Her uncle held his hand up towards her. ‘I said, be quiet!’

She closed her mouth again.

‘Greg called me from Athertons,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Someone’s been asking questions about the company, and I reckon it’s Hinkley. I want to know why.’

‘He’s been asking me lots of questions about it as well,’ Henri said unhelpfully. ‘And I’ve just caught him looking through my board papers.’

‘Are you some sort of industrial spy?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Who are you working for?’

‘I am not a spy,’ I said. ‘And you know damn well that I work for the British Horseracing Authority.’

‘So why are you asking questions about our company?’

I thought about Quentin’s advice and said nothing.

‘Go and pack your things,’ Sir Richard ordered. ‘You’re leaving.’

I looked at Henri but if I thought she was going to stand up for me, I was sorely mistaken. She turned away without looking at my face.

Sir Richard followed me into the bedroom and waited while I collected my things together and put them in my suitcase. It seemed to be the only thing to do.

‘Where am I going?’ I asked him, putting my wallet and passport in my shorts pocket.

‘Out of here,’ he said. ‘We will put you on the late Cayman Airways flight to Miami. After that, I don’t care.’

We went back to the others.

My laptop computer was open on the table and Bentley was studying the screen, which I’d carelessly left still showing the government website on company tax residency.

‘He knows,’ he said, looking up at Sir Richard. There was something about his tone I didn’t like.

‘You bastard!’ Henri shouted, coming up and standing right in front of me. I could see the tears in her eyes. ‘And to think I was falling in love with you when all you were interested in doing was spying on me. You make me sick.’

She hit me hard across the face with her open right hand, making my skin sting. I could taste the saltiness of blood at the corner of my mouth.

She turned away from me, walking over to the window facing the beach.

How I desperately wanted to go after her, to explain that it was not true, I was not a spy, my feelings for her were genuine, not fabricated — and I’d fallen in love with her too. Deeply.

But, for now, my best course of action was to get out and catch that late flight to Miami, and preferably before Martin turned up with alternative plans.

Say nothing and get out of there as soon as possible.

I should have followed my brother-in-law’s advice to the letter.

I was cross with myself for having been distracted by Henri. If those years in Afghanistan should have taught me anything, it was to know when to leave a situation, to get out before the shooting started. And yet I had delayed my departure to spend the day with a girl. And it had also been ill-considered on my part to call the lawyers. I should have waited until after I was safely away.

I went over to collect my computer and phone from the table.

‘Leave them,’ Bentley said. ‘You’re not taking those.’

‘They’re the property of the BHA,’ I said.

‘Then we’ll arrange to have them returned,’ he said, ‘once we’re satisfied there’s nothing on them about our company.’

Bentley closed the lid of my computer and put my iPhone in his pocket. Short of fighting him for them, there was nothing I could do.

I picked up my bag and walked out of the apartment without a backward glance. I couldn’t bear to look at Henri in such an angry state with me.

It was as much as I could do not to cry.

Sir Richard drove with Bentley sitting next to him in the front. I was in the back. None of us spoke.

I’m not sure how long it took me to work out that I was not on my way to the airport and the late flight to Miami. When we had arrived, the journey from the airport to the apartment had only taken ten minutes, and we’d already been going for much longer than that.

The lights of George Town receded behind us.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked with trepidation.

There was no reply.

The car slowed for some red traffic lights. Time to go, I thought.

As the car stopped, I reached for the door handle and pulled, but nothing happened. It was child locked.

‘Let me out,’ I demanded.

Bentley turned around to face me between the front seats.

He was holding a pistol and it was pointed directly at my heart.